


Tasks Left Unfinished

by Corycides



Series: 100 Fics in 100 Days [38]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 10:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Philadelphia, Miles has one job left undone</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tasks Left Unfinished

  
  


Miles took a swig of white dog whiskey, the cheap shit burning abominably on the way down, and watched the sun setting over the ruins of Lexington. They'd walked through this area on their way to Chicago. Not through Lexington – the cities had been death traps – but around here. Just him and Bass. His brother. The only real family he had, because it wasn't like Ben had waited for him. Or even left a clue about his plans.

He laughed bitterly, the sound scratchy and raw in his throat. If he was getting maudlin, he'd either drunk too much or run too far. And if he wasn't out of whiskey – which, he took a swig, he wasn't – he hadn't drunk too much.

As for running too far? He rolled the bottle against his cheek, the glass cooler than his sweaty skin. Far enough he couldn't afford to put this off any longer. It was already 600 miles and about a year late.

He went back to the fire, poking in fresh branches to make it spit and flare at the dark. The knife he'd thrust into the embers glowed cherry red, edges wobbling with the heat. Or the whiskey.

Nora dragged her dark hair back from her face, all wide, worried eyes and soft mouth. 'You ready?'

She loved him. Maybe. She felt something for him at least, otherwise she'd not have helped him scrabble his way out of the city when everything went wrong. As for Miles? It had been a long time since he'd felt anything...clean, simple...but maybe if things had been different.

As it was, he couldn't look at her without hating her a little. None of it was her fault, none of this was fair on her, but the fact she didn't hate him only made it worse. He tried not to let any of that out. He didn't always succeed.

'Yeah. Let's get it over with.'

Miles stripped his shirt over his head and sat down, heat scalding his chest while the air chilled his back. He'd left his name, his rank and his uniform behind, but he'd not been able to bring himself to shed this. It wasn't the Republic, it wasn't the militia – he rubbed his fingers over the black curved lines on his bicep – it was before.

But you couldn't walk through Georgia wearing the Republic's sigil – even if it wasn't where most people would look. Besides, after what happened in Philadelphia, he didn't think it meant much any more. 

Nora pulled a knife from her boot and splashed whiskey over it, sparking blue as he passed it briefly through the fire.

'This is going to hurt,' she said, kneeling next to him.

'I know that,' he said, voice clipped. 'Talking won't help.'

It never did. He really wished she'd take that on board. Nora took a deep breath, lips tight, and cut – deeply. She never really hesitated once she put her mind to something – whether it was him or cutting an M off his arm. The tip of the blade levered up a flap of skin and blood ran down his forearm in a trickle.

It didn't _hurt_. Not like it should, having a palm wide slice of skin excised. It was just pressure, like someone squeezing down to near the bone, and a deepening, spreading heat. Later it would hurt.

Fuck, Miles dropped his chin to his chest, it wasn't like he didn't deserve it. Maybe there'd been no blood on the floor in Independence Hall, but he'd cut Bass deeper. There'd been no choice. He knew that, he was sure, but sometimes he didn't believe it.

The trickle turned into a slick of blood that gloved his arm down to his knuckles. Pain started to scrape through, stabbing up into his armpit and making his fingers twitch, but it was nearly done. Nora sawed through the last rag of skin and tossed it into the fire – flesh crisping with a fatty smell that tugged at a too-empty stomach nauseatingly – and grabbed his t-shirt to wrap around her hand so she could pull the knife out of the fire.

'Brace yourself,' she said.

She slapped the blade against the raw wound, blood bubbling and skin charring. That hurt. Miles retched, whiskey sour bile burping into his mouth, but he held still until she put the knife back in the fire. Then he doubled over and puked on his boots.

  
  



End file.
